She sits next to me on my left side—her usual spot—quietly licking, licking, licking. Her movements are deliberate and methodical.
“Lulu, stop!” I say in an irritated tone after about half an hour of this repetition.
She jumps off the couch, and then begins to bark quietly.
“Arf! Arf!” she vocalizes in a tone I call her inside voice.
I pick her up.
Lulu’s veterinarian recently diagnosed her with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, meaning that she licks incessantly every night and often pulls the hair off her legs. Lulu is my 14-year-old, apricot-colored, nine-pound, toy poodle and the reason that I have been able to deal with the pandemic.
Lulu returns to my side but soon climbs across my laptop and crosses legs to resume the same position next to my mother. She licks her hand, then the air, and then the trackpad on the laptop, moving the mouse and clicking out of the browser.
“Lulu, stop using the computer!”
Lulu is back on my left side with her front paw propped on my leg every day since March 16, 2020. COVID-19 rushed me back to my family home in El Paso prematurely after only seven months of graduate school at the University of North Texas.
Before leaving Denton, I had texted my mom and a cousin frantically. My mom insisted, “You’ll be home for two weeks.” My cousin, who has her doctorate in public health, advised in a text, “Pack enough clothes for a month.” That was nearly a year ago.
My parents decided that I needed a dog when I was 10 years old. My father, who had been diagnosed with rapidly spreading cancer, was in and out of the hospital for most of my fourth-grade year. After living with my grandparents for several months, I was back home temporarily. By March, I had a new friend the size of my hand after an advertisement in the Sunday newspaper mentioned a litter of poodles.
Lulu was like a living toy. I came home from school and played with her. I talked to her when I missed being home with my parents. She was the distraction that I now realize I needed in that moment.
After my father passed away six months later, my dog and I moved back home. I sat on the couch every night doing homework. She would bring me toys to play fetch for hours. I would write. She would bark. I would throw. We would repeat.
I left home when Lulu was eight. Now, she is 14. During those years, Lulu would frantically throw herself on the carpet when I first got home for a visit. Then, she would often ignore me, never sitting next to me, never playing fetch. I had learned to live without her, and she had learned to live without me.
In those years, we realized that Lulu and I both struggled with anxiety. I got medication. Lulu tried to remove the age-related warts off of her body.
From the time I returned home in March until June I ventured nowhere and saw no one. Lulu was again my best friend. “Come here, Lulu,” became my most spoken phrase when we were by ourselves. I needed to hug her, to hold her and to feel her warmth.
Slowly but surely, Lulu began choosing me over my mom, who had grown much closer to the dog while I had been away. She sat next to me. I threw toys at her. She ignored me when I called her name. It was just as it had always been.
Lulu is next to my mom now, licking nothing but staring at me as I speak. Her pink tongue extends to what seems to be nearly two inches from her mouth.
I ask, “Where does she keep it all?”
Her look shows me that she seems to understand what I am saying.
By early July, I realized that my issues had been compounded by the pandemic. Lacking distractions, I created them by sleeping during the day. At night, I suffered from insomnia for many of those months early in the pandemic. Occasionally, I would sleep on the couch with her between my legs. Her light snoring lulled me to sleep. The light pressure on my leg from her head and the warmth of her body offered the opportunity for deep relaxation that I could not otherwise achieve either during the day or at night.
Lulu stares at me, and then stares at the television. She has been awake for most of the day and is growing tired.
When I could not see anyone else, Lulu was someone to watch television with, the friend you have dinner and a movie with on a Saturday night. She always looks as though she is watching television. What I perceived as her interested posture sometimes kept me watching a movie when I may otherwise have grown overwhelmed and turned it off due to a depression-related lack of interest.
One night, the fire alarm in the house started beeping as it needed new batteries. Lulu, a nervous dog, began shivering. My mother got up to replace the batteries, and I got up to comfort Lulu. She trembled for nearly an hour until we both fell asleep. She spent all of the next day with me and for days after that. That morning, I realized how much she needed me. I began to feel truly valuable in that moment, like I had made a difference to another being. That understanding made me see that Lulu had kept me together during the pandemic like I had that night.
Lulu began sitting next to me during the day when I was trying to work remotely and complete assignments on time. She became a reminder that I could be productive with some emotional support.
Throughout the pandemic, Lulu has been a sort of an unofficial emotional support animal, one that provides comfort to someone with an emotional issue like anxiety, according to the American Kennel Club. The New York Times reported that there are now over 200,000 of them in the United States. The sense of calm that dogs and other animals offer is not uncommon.
After a few months, I finally opened up to favorite great-aunt as I started to call her more often. I told her about the last few months and about my dog. I showed her photographs of Lulu that I had taken for a class. I spent hours taking photos of Lulu for a project. It was the only thing I could focus on for more than 15 minutes.
Since that most difficult time, I have sought out more human companionship. At my great-aunt’s home a few Fridays ago, one of her friends called for a chat about opera. It was getting late, and her friend assumed that I would stay the night.
“She won’t stay. She has a little dog that she loves a lot,” my great-aunt told her friend.
I do. I have a little dog that I love a lot. Everybody seems to know her now. I suppose I talk about her that much.
Lulu’s head is still up, but her eyes close as she licks my hand rhythmically. My hand hurts from the constant friction. Still, I let her continue. I like the way it feels because it keeps me from thinking of anything else. Lulu falls asleep briefly for a few seconds before she starts licking again. Her warmth always seems to make her light musk stronger. With a mind that cannot stop thinking about problems—both real and made-up—these sensory distractions offer me a short break.
At 14 years old, Lulu cannot live forever, and I cannot stay here forever. I will graduate and get a full-time job, move out, and the pandemic will end. Lulu has taught me what it means to be there for another person—the quiet understanding that I found necessary. She has taught me how to be a good and sympathetic friend.
Lulu is falling asleep. She stops licking and rolls over to her side, letting out a deep sigh. Her eyes remain open as she seemingly watches Stephen Colbert on the television across the room. This has become our new nightly ritual. I am no longer at home quite as much with her, but this standing appointment serves to relax me just enough to go to bed.
One of my favorite movies—one I watched with Lulu when I first returned to El Paso—begins with a song. “If only I could have a puppy, I’d call myself so very lucky just to have some company,” it goes.
I call myself so very lucky just to have had Lulu's company.